his stool and started for the door. He couldnt help noticing that people were pointedly getting out of his way. At the door Spyder heard Bilal yell, "An OD! Youre going to OD! How could I have missed that?"
Eleven
The Voice of the Sphinx
Spyder wondered what time it was. He was in another cab and trying hard to ignore the chatty driver. It pained Spyder that he hadnt ridden his bike that morning. Without the bike, he always felt tied up and weighed down.
Ever since he could ride, Spyder had always had a motorcycle of some kind. "You never know when youre going to need to get the hell out of Dodge," hed liked to tell friends. "And you can only run so far in a cab. " He told the driver to pull over.
"This aint even near Pier 31," said the cabbie.
"I feel like walking. " Spyder paid the man and got out. He looked around as the cab made a U turn and headed back the way theyd come. Spyder had lived in San Francisco for ten years and during a brief breaking and entering period in his early twenties, had prided himself on knowing every backstreet, alley and bypass in the city. Right now, however, he didnt know where the hell he was.
Ahead of him, where he was certain the waterfront warehouses should begin, well-trodden sand dunes sloped down to San Francisco Bay. A lot of the city had been built on reclaimed beach. This, he was certain, was what the waterfront had looked like a couple of hundred years ago. Spyder stood where the cab had dropped him, fighting contradictory impulses. His body told him that ahead, past the dunes, was where the piers lay. But his eyes told him that there was nothing but shifting beach and black water. Then he saw a f
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